


This Ain't A Love Song

by Whynotitsfun



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breakup/makeup, Established Charloe, F/M, Family, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:22:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whynotitsfun/pseuds/Whynotitsfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baby, I thought you and me would stand the test of time<br/>Like we got away with the perfect crime<br/>But we were just a legend in my mind<br/>I guess that I was blind<br/>Remember those nights dancing at he masquerade<br/>The clowns wore smiles that wouldn't fade<br/>you and I were the renegades, somethings never change</p><p>It made me so mad 'cause I wanted it bad for us baby<br/>Now it's so sad that whatever we had ain't worth saving<br/>if the love that I got for you is gone<br/>If the river I've cried ain't that long<br/>Then I'm wrong, yes, I'm wrong this ain't a love song</p><p>If the pain that I'm feeling so strong<br/>Is the reason that I'm holding on<br/>Then I'm wrong, yeah I'm wrong, this ain't a love song</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bed of Lies

**Author's Note:**

> ... Just like me, you've got needs  
>  And there only a whisper away  
> And we've softly surrendered to these lives  
> that we've tendered away
> 
> But I would not sleep in this bed of lies  
> So toss me out and turn in  
> And there'll be no rest for these tired eyes  
> I'm marking it down to learning  
> I'm marking it down to learning  
> 'Cause I Can...
> 
> (excerpt from Bed of Lies-- Matchbox 20)

**March…**

                Bass was on his way home, intending on surprising his wife. After all these months of going from Austin to Willoughby and back again, he was finally done and coming home to stay. They’d gone back and forth for a while now—Charlie didn’t want to leave Willoughby—her family was here and her mother wasn’t exactly well. Bass hadn’t wanted to not have a job.

                Towns like Willoughby weren’t exactly overflowing with employment opportunities, after all. Miles might be happy with all of those little side jobs he’d been doing, but Bass hadn’t been able to settle for that. Besides which fact, there was really only one thing he was good at anyway.

                It had been so long since he’d even considered a vocation that didn’t involve killing or military strategy that he didn’t know what a “retired” Bass Monroe would even look like. Charlie had asked him countless times, “What do you want to do?”

                He’d never been able to come up with an answer. He knew he absolutely hated working for Texas, and he hated bouncing around between his job and his home all the time. One month there, two weeks home. It had been wearing him down for some time. And yet, he’d resisted all the same.

                The problem was that Bass didn’t really know who he was anymore. He certainly wasn’t General Monroe (and thank God for that). Nor was he that drunken boxer that had found himself buried in New Vegas—at least, that’s not who he wanted to be. He wasn’t a freedom fighter and in reality, he never really was. He’d been in it for family, for revenge and because he _liked_ a good, bloody battle. After so many years, it was what he knew—his comfort zone.

                And then, two weeks ago, he’d woken up in his lonely and cold bed in that shit slum that he rented while working in Austin. He’d been unable to fall back to sleep. The same questions kept burning in his mind. _Who are you? Who do you want to be? When are you ever happy?_

                And then, it hit him. It had been staring him in the face all this time and he’d just been too stubborn and resistant to change to see it. It didn’t really matter what he did—what mattered was who he was with. He might not know _who_ he was, but he finally knew who he wanted to be. Hers.

                He’d had Charlie all these months and yet he hadn’t really taken any time to just enjoy that. So, he’d stayed up all night thinking about what he could do. The town was slowly coming back to life after the war. Whereas no one was really hiring, there were a lot of businesses that had been closed when the owners had either disappeared, joined the patriots or died.

                Hadn’t there been a butcher shop? He was pretty sure he recalled someone mentioning that the owner, some Dawson guy had disappeared right when the Patriots came to town with their promises of making things better for everyone. _Just your helpful, happy red, white and blue psychopaths!_

                He knew that nothing made Charlie happier than a good hunting trip. She loved being out there, loved the process of it. Every part of it brought her peace—the anticipation of the trip, setting up camp, the hunt, the kill, field dressing and even bringing it home to cook. The problem was that she’d never found a way to make hunting really pay.

                Bass’ own talent at killing wasn’t limited to just humans either. He was every bit the tracker and hunter Charlie was. They could run the shop together, working to fill the cases with the game they brought in and eventually include domesticated stock as well. In the world they lived in, meat was expensive and people had a hard time making sure they had enough. The town always seemed to have a shortage. The situation would be a win-win.

                Did Bass know a damn thing about properly butchering an animal? Hell no. He could field dress one and that was about it (even then, Charlie told him he was horrible at it). But, Charlie knew and was actually pretty good at it and Bass figured that since he had a reason to care to learn, Charlie could teach him whatever he needed to know about it (or at least have fun trying).

                If it went over well, they could hire a neighbor or two to help out and even expand since the town didn’t really have much of a general store or anything. All in all, this could be a good thing, if he could figure out a way to make it happen.

                All of those closed businesses were now owned by Texas. In the morning, he’d gotten up and had checked on it—that butcher shop was indeed still up for grabs—and the price wasn’t cheap either (no wonder it had still remained closed). Apparently Ken Dawson had owed quite a bit of back taxes and it had been tacked onto the sale of the building and the rights to run it.

                Still, it wasn’t impossible. They’d have to save for a while, but just maybe they could make it happen if they worked their asses off on every side job imaginable. The next day, he’d walked right up to Frank Blanchard in the middle of one of his stupid and pointless strategy meetings. He’d told him he could take his missions and his men and all his political bullshit and shove them up his wrinkly, perverted ass.

                He was done with playing “slap the stray” with the Patriots. He’d done his time and he’d earned his pardon and he wanted out. He had a girl and a life waiting for him in Willoughby and he was tired of being away from it for weeks on end. He was tired of missing out on the chance for a real life.

                To his surprise, Blanchard hadn’t threatened to revoke his pardon nor had he ordered him removed from the premises. Instead, he’d smiled in that good ol’ boy way he had about him and had simply said, “Well it’s about fucking time. Give my regards to the missus.”

                Bass had been even more surprised when Blanchard had arranged for a fairly decent severance as a thank-you for his services. That had solved the problem of how to make a possibility a reality. He’d decided to surprise Charlie with the whole thing. He’d gotten the deed for the business and had made sure everything was perfectly arranged before boarding the eastbound train for home.

                As he’d watched Austin disappear for the last time, he knew that this was what he wanted. A real life, with this woman he couldn’t get enough of. They could work side by side and build something together. Sure, it’d be awkward for a bit, but they’d work it all out.

                Her family had not been happy when they’d been outed. He and Miles had even once come to blows over it before his lifelong friend had begrudgingly accepted that it wasn’t going to change. When they’d eloped? Well it was World War III all over again.

                He and Miles had since found an uneasy truce—they never talked about it. When he was home, he’d reserve a night or two to have a few drinks at the bar with Miles (the first business to reopen, go figure), and Charlie would stay at home. It was just easier for Miles to pretend that his best friend _wasn’t_ married to his niece.

                Still, if he was back for good and planning on making a go of life in Willoughby, his brother would have to come to terms with the marriage. He was sure that a few more fist fights would break out, but it’d be okay in the end.

                Rachel would, of course hate it. In her mind, as long as Bass was just a part time resident, it meant that there was a chance Charlie would come to her senses. She’d throw a fit for several weeks before going back to pretending that Bass didn’t exist and acting like her daughter was a single woman still.

                It was annoying, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t deal with, after all. Gene would probably not react at all. He was convinced that if he just ignored the relationship long enough, it’d just go away. As such, he acknowledged Bass when he had to and pretended that he was just visiting whenever he was around his granddaughter.  

                And then, there were the Staypufts. They’d played the rather interesting part of mediators over these many months. They’d probably continue in this role as well. They’d make the best of things, plaster those uncomfortable smiles on their faces and would try to include him and welcome him for Charlie’s sake, just as they had since day one.

                So, yeah, it would be awkward, but they’d all survive it. Eventually, Charlie’s family would figure out that they had something and would suffer it in silence. That’s what family did, after all. Charlie wouldn’t be the first person in the history of mankind to shack up with a guy her family disapproved of and she most certainly wouldn’t be the last. The important part was that they’d be in it together.

                He ended up getting back to Willoughby just a few days before he’d been originally scheduled to come home. He’d thought about writing her at some point, but he figured it would just spoil the surprise.

                He’d been hoping to show up around dinner time, but a tree had fallen across the tracks in a storm and the train been delayed because of it. It was now the middle of the night and as he walked down the drive to the house, he was surprised to find lights still burning in the bedroom window.

                _Charlie’s up reading again,_ he thought as he dug his key to their rental house out of his poc _ket._ He set his backpack down on the table by the door and made his way to their bedroom. The door was closed, which should have made him wonder, but he was tired from the journey and so happy to be home that it didn’t cross his mind to be concerned.

                When he opened the door, he saw something he’d never thought he’d find. Charlie jumped out of the bed ( _their bed),_ taking the quilt with her. This left Tommy Riley—that stupid kid from the livery, exposed and instantly looking like he was about to soil the sheets.

                “Bass!” She had nothing else to say, other than that—the shocked screaming of his name, which echoed around the room, reverberating off the walls and slapping him again and again. The guilt immediately spread across her passion-flushed features. She’d been caught and he could tell that she was far too stunned to even try to explain herself.

                As the next two seconds passed a thousand thoughts and images few through his head. He imagined beating the shit out that little punk that had wormed his way into their bed. He imagined wringing her pretty little neck. He then imagined reaching for the gun strapped to his leg and shooting them both—a double tap and the cause of this instant and overwhelming pain would be gone forever.

                He pictured himself throwing her lover out the door, buck ass naked for the world to see and then having one hell of a screaming match, followed by breakup and/or makeup sex. He even imagined asking her why and begging her not to do this to him. Charlie’d tell him that this wasn’t what it looked like and he’d believe her.

                Of course, he did none of these things. Instead, he turned around and slammed the door shut behind him. He stomped to where he’d left his gear, ignoring the sound of their bedroom door opening and Charlie following him down the hallway, pleading for him to wait. He ignored the sounds of her sobbing and he tried to pretend that his heart hadn’t just shattered into infinite, pathetic little pieces.

                He just walked right out the front door and into the night. His pace was slow and steady and all the while Charlie stood on their front porch, the quilt covering her traitorous and unfaithful body while she begged for him to come back.

                By the time he was out of sight, he could hear her screaming at Tommy the stable boy to get out. Maybe he’d tried to convince her to finish what Bass had interrupted, or maybe he’d just not taken then hint that he should leave after witnessing the death of a marriage.

                Either way, Bass didn’t care. He wouldn’t let her see how she’d just destroyed him. He just walked until he couldn’t anymore. Maybe it was fate that he found himself staring at that house that Rachel had brought him too after digging up his supposedly executed body.  Maybe it was just a coincidence and geography.   _Who cares?_ It was outside of the town walls and away from her. That was all that mattered to him.

                Bass sank down on that old and musty mattress that he’d woken up on eighteen months prior. He barely recalled trashing the rest of the place on his way through the house and up the stairs, even though it had just been moments prior. He didn’t care about the cuts on his hands and the swelling in his knuckles. He neither recalled nor cared if he’d even closed the front door (incidentally, he hadn’t).

                He didn’t care about anything. His future had just been taken away from him. A small part of Bass wondered if it had even been a possibility—had he just imagined that things between them had meant something?  Another small and pathetic part of him wished he’d have come home in the morning instead—or better yet, on the day he’d told her he’d have been there. Living that lie would have been so much easier than facing the truth of what he’d seen.

                Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow in Austin, and it’d be two weeks ago and he’d have dreamt a cautionary tale of why he should just stay put. Maybe he’d wake up back In Philly and all of this would have been a strange and stupid nightmare. Maybe he wouldn’t wake up at all. Personally, he’d give everything he had if any of those scenarios would be true.

                He held his head in his hands, feeling stupid and so very alone. In the dark, on this stinking mattress, he let it all out. If someone had heard him, they’d have thought him insane—and maybe he was for having believed that he could ever have a happy ending. He cried, he laughed and he raged for hours before curling up in a ball and seeking the painless and numb refuge of slumber.


	2. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...  
>  Every single day, I think about how we   
> came all this way  
> the sleepless nights  
> all the tears you've cried  
> It's never too late to make things right  
> Yeah, I'm sorry
> 
> I'm sorry I'm bad, I'm sorry you're blue  
> I'm sorry about all the things I said to you  
> And I know I can't take it back  
> I love how you kiss, I love all your sounds  
> And how baby you make my world go 'round  
> And I just wanted to say I'm sorry  
> ...
> 
> (Excerpt from Sorry-- Buckcherry)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I forgot to mention it-- each chapter will have it's own character perspective. It will often switch from one to the next (except a few in a row from Miles' POV)

                Charlie followed the trail Bass had left all the way to that abandoned farm outside of town. Her head hurt from all the crying and lack of sleep and she felt weak and fuzzy from not having eaten. She was sick with worry and guilt and dreaded finding him there as much as she dreaded _not_ finding him at all.

                After he’d walked away, she’d panicked. Tommy had still been lying there, his erection deflated and the fear still emanating off of him. He knew exactly who Charlie’s husband was and what he was capable of. He’d also read the fury in his eyes and had honestly feared for his own life in those agonizingly long seconds that followed that horrible discovery.

                Charlie had thrown his clothes at him and had gone to the closet. Pointing her crossbow straight at his heart, she’d screamed for him to get out of _their house_. Not knowing what else to do, she’d gotten dressed had had sought the only other source of comfort that she knew (having just lost her main one). She’d gone to Miles. He’d stumbled to the porch when he’d woken up to the sounds of her crying when shed all but collapsed on the wicker bench under the veranda.

                Her mother had, of course, followed him out there, but had immediately retreated when she realized that Charlie’s presence had something to do with Bass. Charlie had been in hysterics and it had taken Miles a good hour or so to calm her down enough just so she could tell him what had happened.

                The first words out of his mouth had been, “How could you do that to him?”

                That had sent her into another fit of hysterical crying. Of course, he was right. _How could she?_  She’d loved him, that she knew. It had just been so hard. Her family hated their relationship and he’d been gone so much she’d been lonely and had felt so isolated when Bass was in Austin.

                It wasn’t as if she’d been banished from her family, but her mother always made things so damn uncomfortable. And then, her grandfather’s selective amnesia hadn’t helped either. Whenever she’d been around, he’d acted like she wasn’t a married woman. He’d even been the one that had tried to set her up with Tommy in the first place—which had put him conveniently in her sphere when she’d finally lost her mind and done the unthinkable.

                And then there were Aaron and Priscilla. They’d tried so hard to pretend she wasn’t sleeping with “the enemy,” even going so far as to constantly ask her how he was doing, did he like his job, when was he scheduled to come home, were they ever going to settle down and have some kids and so on.

                They’d tried so hard to include him when he was in town, which always seemed to make her nerves twitch. It was bad enough having the people closest to you hate your husband. It was worse when they made a focused and obvious effort to try to like him for your sake.

                And so, when Tommy had gotten the idea in his head that Gene’s efforts meant something and that he really liked her, Charlie had been flattered at first. She’d been lonely and missing Bass and it felt nice to have someone talk to her about something other than her and Bass. Things had sort of gone from there and then she’d found herself making a huge mistake.

                And then, there were those lonely nights when she’d wake up having dreamt about Danny and her father. She’d lie awake pining for Bass (she never had these dreams when he was home) and she’d realize that she was aching for the man that had taken them away in the first place. She’d told him she’d forgiven him—and for the most part she had. But those nights weighed on her so much.

                All of this pressure had simply been too much. And then something had snapped within her. She’d been at the livery, settling their monthly account for keeping the two horses she and Bass owned. Tommy had been the only one there and it had just happened.

                Miles had listened to all of this and had called her on it. “Bullshit. If you feel guilty about being with someone because of the past, you break up with them—or don’t _marry_ them in the first place. You don’t let them catch you with some punk ass kid in their own bed.”

                At some point, Miles had stopped letting her have it and had started to empathize with her. After all, being friends with Bass had not been easy for him either. He faced the same quiet rage from Rachel that she did. Charlie knew that her mother never ceased to give him crap about his willingness to be friends with the man.

                Miles had eventually pulled her into his lap like she was a little girl and had held her while she cried her heart out. By the time she’d stopped, the day was already dawning. “So, what are you going to do to clean this mess up?” He’d asked her.

                She’d been surprised at that. She’d have thought he’d have encouraged her to accept her loss and move on. After all, he hadn’t liked the idea of Charlie and Bass being together in the first place. With the breakup being her fault, he would even get to keep his friendship (which most certainly wouldn’t have been possible if Bass had been the one to fuck it all up).

                “He’s gone. What am I supposed to do?” she’d said.

                Miles had brushed her hair out of her face and shaken his head at her own density. “You get up and you go look for him, Little Miss Tracker. You talk to him and see if he’ll listen. He probably won’t, but you at least owe him an apology, even if he won’t accept it. You’re married—he can’t exactly escape that easily anyway.”

                And so, she’d done just that. Miles had warned her to expect him to lash out, even if he was willing to forgive her. It was a long shot, but it was worth trying. The only chance she really had was that Bass loved her—he’d have never risked losing Miles if he hadn’t. If there was one thing that Bass had a hard time with, it was letting go of those he loved—even when they’d betrayed him.

                She now stood in uncertainty on the front porch of the abandoned farmhouse. The door was wide open, which gave her pause. This might be an indication that he’d already left, or even worse—that something had happened.

                There was glass on the front porch too—the shade of a lamp sticking out of where the window once was. She thought back, bringing up her memory of this place. She distinctly remembered it having been run down and filthy, but it was at least whole.

                She stepped inside and was met with the mess he’d left the night before. There was no doubt in her mind that Bass had done this—his pack still sat in the middle of the living room where he’d dropped it. What was left of the furniture was broken and scattered. Someone had done a number on it. Books from the now splintered bookshelf were torn, their pages fluttering around the room in the breeze coming in the now missing front window.

                The glass had been broken out, most likely by the useless brass floor lamp that was leaning half out of the frame. There were a few drops of blood on the frame as well. She reached out and touched them. They were still a bit tacky, telling her it was fresh.

                She went from room to room, taking it all in while searching for him all the same. In the kitchen, drawers were yanked out from under the counters, their contents dumped out all over the floor. Only one of the chairs at the overturned table had survived the onslaught.

                She made her way to the stairs. There was a decorative mirror surrounded with picture frames at the bottom of the staircase. Each had been punched out, the glass cracked in the center. More photos had been pulled off the wall going up the staircase as well, the frames broken and tossed down like a breadcrumb trail of destruction.

                In the upstairs hallway, there were several fist sized hoes in the drywall and a few doors had them too. She finally came to the room at the end of the hallway. This was where she knew he’d be. It was the room he’d used to recover from the execution that never was. It was also the only door that suffered no injury—and it was slightly ajar. She rapped on it gently before swinging it open. “Bass?”

                She found him there, sitting on the end of the bed, head bowed and in his hands. His long fingers were tangled in his hair. “Bass?” she repeated, her voice shaking.  


	3. Apologize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll take another chance, take a fall  
> take a shot for you.  
> I need you like a heart needs a beat   
> that's nothing new.  
> Yeah, I loved you with a fire red, now  
> it's turning blue and you say  
> "Sorry" like the angel heaven let me think was you  
> But I'm afraid, It's too late to apologize, it's too late.
> 
> (Excerpt from Apologize, by One Republic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that's read and commented thus far. And, thanks for giving the story a chance.

 

                Bass had heard her come in. He’d been lying in the bed, staring up at the ceiling while trying to figure out what he was going to do. At the sound of footsteps below him, he’d bolted up right. He’d known them anywhere. She’d found him.

                He’d known she’d eventually come. He hadn’t bothered covering his tracks and she was too good to _not_ find him with such an easy trail left behind. Well that, and Charlie knew him too well. It wouldn’t take a whole lot of thought on her end to figure out where he’d have gone. Clearly, it wouldn’t have been to Miles and it had been too late for him to flee back to Austin like the little wounded puppy she’d turned him into.

                He figured that he had three choices: Climb out the window and run like a little bitch (tempting, but could result in a broken limb or two on the way down and he was already hurting enough), seek her out (he was too tired and this would display an eagerness he didn’t feel), or he could wait for her to find him (less tempting than option one, but safer at least).

                In all reality, a confrontation would have to happen at some point. They were, after all, married. He couldn’t just pretend otherwise and go on with life as if he’d never known her—tempting as it was at the moment. And so, he decided to wait it out.

                Each moment stretched out like an eternity as he listened to the telltale sounds of her making her way through the rubble he’d left. As time passed, the room felt smaller and more confining. The entire time, images of what he’d found when he’d opened their bedroom door kept flashing through his mind.

                He wanted more than anything to forget them, but they were permanently burned into his memory. Each time the scene replayed, it lashed at him anew. By the time he heard her quivering voice say his name, he’d gone from angry to desolate, hopeful and then right back to angry before settling into total despair once more. She was here but he _really_ didn’t want to see her—except that he did, which he hated himself for.

                “Bass?” he heard her say a second time.

                _Don’t look at her…_ And yet, he couldn’t help it. He opened his eyes and took an unsteady breath before raising his head. She looked like total hell. Her eyes were red and her face puffy. He could tell how exhausted and miserable she was. _Good. I hope she does feel shitty. She deserves to feel shitty._

 Despite the direction of his thoughts, he had to fight the urge to get up and comfort her. As much as he wanted to punish her for the pain she’d caused him, he still wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her tight and tell her it was going to be okay. This was his Charlie, and that’s what they did for one another… Until last night.

                “What do you want?” he finally asked. It was obvious what she wanted, but he felt almost like he was obligated to say it on behalf of betrayed spouses everywhere.

                She hesitated for a second, most likely injured by the tone he used. “Can we talk?” She stood before him shaking. Bass could tell Charlie was barely holding herself upright, but he didn’t have it in him to suggest she sit down.

                He nodded in response and waited several agonizing moments for her to talk. “You wanna talk? Well, you’re running out of time before I decide I’m not listening. You’d better just say what you came to say and get it over with.”

                Charlie sank to the floor in front of him then. She reached out and put her hands on his knees and broke out into a fresh round of tears. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. Please give me chance to explain.”

                Bass shot to his feet, sending her backwards onto her rear. “How could you possibly have an explanation for _that?_ Huh?” Of all the things that Charlie could have possibly said, that was probably the one thing that would have set him off the most. He could have handled an apology and a promise to make up for it—he’d probably have sunk down on the floor right then and there, giving into his irrational urge to hold her.

                But the thought that there was an explanation or an excuse for what she’d done was unacceptable. Fucking up was one thing, thinking you had _any_ justification for it, well that was something else entirely and it enraged him anew. “There is _nothing_ that you can say that makes this okay,” he snapped as he stepped around her and fled to the other side of the room.

                Being Charlie, she got defensive. “You were _never_ fucking here. I kept asking you to quit and come home, and kept waiting for you to want to be here more than Austin—on another one of your stupid little missions.”    

                Bass paced his side of the room, dragging his hand through his hair as he listened to her blame him. “You wanna know why I came home early? It was because I _quit_ —for you. Stupid, right? I quit my fucking job so I could be home with my _wife_ only to find out she’s been _fucking the stable boy!_

                “You… You quit?” She’d stopped her wailing and looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and a look of astonishment on her face. “You quit for me?”

                He advanced over to where she sat in stunned silence, towering over her. “Yeah—idiot that I am. I quit so we could be together. I was gonna surprise you.” He let the mask of indifference slid into place—his last defense mechanism. “Except, the joke’s on me, right? Instead of coming home to a wife, I got to cock-block a whore.”

                He ignored the way she flinched when he called her that. It only made her cry again, harder this time. “I didn’t know. I thought you—I’m so sorry, Bass. It didn’t mean anything. I was just lonely and—”

                “Fucking save it, Charlie. How could you do this to me?” He unknowingly echoed Miles’ question from the night before. The pain was so real and raw and he hated that he was displaying it now. “I loved you and just wanted to make you happy.”

                “You did make me happy. I just got overwhelmed—and things got mixed up. We can work this out,” she begged as she got up on her knees.

                Bass couldn’t do this anymore. He didn’t wat to talk to her, didn’t want to keep watching her cry. “Just go. Get out and go back to your little stable boy. I hope he was worth the cost of a divorce.”

                “Please don’t.” She was kneeling at his feet, her hands gripping his pants leg as she tried to keep him close. “I know you hate me right now, but I know you still love me too. I love you too and I’m so sorry that I hurt you. Give me a chance.”

                Bass backed away from her grasp. “No, it’s over, _Charlotte.”_ He had to detach himself. He started with using that name—the formal one that separated them. When they were together, they were Bass and Charlie. Now, it had to be Charlotte and Monroe. “Just go away. I don’t want to do this. I don’t _want_ to forgive you. I just want you to leave me alone.” _Alone…_ he hated that word—he hated how it sounded and what it meant. He hated the way it felt and yet, that’s all he wanted now.

                Defeated, Charlie got to her feet. She stood there for several moments longer, as if by remaining in place he’d change his mind. When he wouldn’t even look at her, Charlie backed out of the room. He actually heard her back hit the wall. “Don’t end it, Please Bass. I promise—”

                  In that moment, Bass wanted to stop her so much that it almost hurt worse than all the rest of the pain she’d inflicted. Maybe if he hadn’t wanted it so badly, he’d have reached for her. But no, he had to fight against it. “You ended it yourself when you brought that boy into our home. You’re a lying bitch and a cheating little slut, just like you mother, and your promises mean nothing to me.”

                Charlie fled then. Bass could hear her stumbling down the stairs. At some point she must have tripped over the debris from his tornado impersonation—he heard her fall and it was quite some time before the sounds of her sobs were replaced with those of her getting up again. Every cell in his body screamed for him to get up and check on her—to take back the things he’d said. He clenched his fists tight enough to reopen the cuts he’d received from punching out the remaining glass from the living room window.

                The knuckles he’d broken when putting all those holes in the doors and walls throbbed, but he almost welcomed the pain—a distraction from the real hurt that surrounded him now. A stray memory flitted through his mind.

_He’d taken a bullet in the shoulder during the militia wars. It hadn’t been bad, but it had hurt like a son of a bitch. It had been the first time Bass had ever been shot._

_Miles had decided that his whining was getting old. Out of nowhere, he’d smacked Bass upside the head with the hilt of his sword._

_“Whatdya do that for?” he’d snapped._

_Miles had laughed at him. “Made you forget about your shoulder now didn’t it?”_

                That had been the old Miles. The new and improved version would probably be giddy of his pain now. Miles 2.0 probably loved Tommy the fucking stable boy and would be glad that Charlie had chosen him over their marriage.

                Fucking little Tommy Riley. Twenty-five and about as stupid as he was pretty—and right around Charlie’s age. How could he be so blind? _Of course she cheated on you? What woman her age wants to be with a guy old enough to be her father. You were such an idiot to think this could work out—and you’re officially the laughing stock of Willoughby. The deposed general and old has-been just got tossed aside for a fucking kid._

Several hours later, Bass found himself sitting on the lone chair that he’d somehow overlooked. He’d stumbled into town and had stumbled straight back with the world’s greatest liquid bandage—whiskey. He’d gotten two bottles in fact. He’d bought the best shit that money could buy in Willoughby. If he was going to drink to forget her, he was going to do it in style.

                He was just sinking into bottle number two and had long since arrived at shitty town when Miles showed up. “Well this is productive,” he said as he came into the kitchen. Bass watched him with bleary eyes as he kicked a drawer and its junk aside and leaned up against the island in the middle of the kitchen. “Love what you’ve done with the place. Did you hire a decorator, or was this all you?”

                “What are you doing here?” Bass slurred. It was not quite dinner time and his eyes were already narrow slits. His eyelids were too heavy to be bothered with the task of staying open all the way.

                Miles approached him like he was a rabid dog—weary and yet refusing to back down and ready to defend himself at moment’s notice. Not that he should have been overly concerned. Bass was far too far gone to put up much of a fight to anyone. He snatched the bottle and took a giant step backwards. Back where he started, he took a drink before reaching behind him to grab the cork off the island. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t do something stupid—like drinking yourself dead or whatever.”

                “Leave me alone, Miles.” Bass got up and stumbled over to him, intent on retrieving his bottle. Suicide by whiskey wasn’t on his agenda. He’d planned on stopping at brain damage and would like to get back to it.

                “Not a chance. I get it, she fucked up and she hurt you. This,” he paused to gesture around the destroyed room and then to the bottle, “it’s not the answer and you know it.” Miles only had to shove him a little and he went backwards, his ass missing the chair entirely in favor for the floor.

                “You’re supposed to be gloating. Why aren’t you gloating?” Bass asked as he cocked his head to look up at both of the images of Miles he now saw swimming above him.

                Miles sighed as he shook his head at him. Bass could practically hear the words that were probably running through his mind right now. _Pathetic, childish, idiotic…_ “You think I wanted this to happen? Sure, I hated the idea of the two of you together. Doesn’t mean I wanted to see you get hurt—although that was part of the reason I didn’t want you guys to get involved in the first place.”

                “Huh?” That stunned him. The fight they’d had over him and Charlie had been quite the opposite.

                “Seriously? I _know_ you, Bass. Out of the two of you, it was always you that was gonna end up like this, not Charlie.”

 


	4. Wasted Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Say it to my face, and look me in the eyes  
> And say what you have to say  
> You know we can't erase  
> These words before goodbye  
> And turn the final page  
> Oh, here come's alone again
> 
> Everything's broken, Everything's vacant  
> Everything's wasted time again  
> Sentiments hopeless  
> Innocence jaded,  
> Everything's wasted time again.
> 
> (Excerpt from Wasted Time by Fuel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd chapter for the day.

 

                Miles looked at the pathetic pile of drunkenness that was his best friend. He reached down and grabbed Bass’ hand and started to pull him up. Despite Bass’ best efforts to remain in place, Miles was sober and by far more determined. Once he’d gotten his friend on his unsteady feet, he shoved him towards the back door.

                “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bass asked as he continued to put up a weak fight. “I don’t wanna go anywhere. I wanna—”

                “Too damn bad, Bass.” He’d had enough, so Miles grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind his back. “I swear I’ll add a broken arm to your problems if you don’t stop fighting me. I’m getting you out of here before you trip on this mess and break your neck or step on a nail and die of tetanus or something. Then, I’m getting you something to eat. I’m willing to bet you didn’t bother with food when you went on your little shopping trip.”

                On his way out of town to confront Bass about the things he’d said to Charlie, Miles had been told that one very wrecked and out of it looking Sebastian Monroe had shown up, bought the most expensive booze to be had and then had left town again. Right then and there, Miles knew they were in for a very long night.

                “I don’t want—” Bass began again.

                “Don’t care,” Miles growled.

                They made it out the back door and into the overgrown grass when all this walking business proved too much for his inebriated friend.  Bass stopped short, which almost sent them both lurching onto the ground. Apparently Bass’ body decided to do something that it hadn’t done since they were both Charlie’s age—it decided to preserve itself.

                Miles just managed to keep them upright, which was a good thing because at that moment, Bass bent over and started to heave up a stomach full of whiskey. He backed away to let him puke in peace. “Sometimes, I really fucking hate you,” he grumbled as he turned away from the sight.

                He suppressed a shudder as the sounds of Bass’ ill state filled the night around them. He could deal with blood, guts and being the source of said blood and guts. There was one little known fact about him, however. Miles was indeed a pity puker and had been all his life. He took a few deep breaths to try to prevent his own stomach from doing summersaults.

                “Feelings mutual,” Bass replied in between gags.

                It took a good half hour for Bass to compose himself. Memories from their youth came to mind as he looked his friend over: Frat parties that he’d crashed during Bass’ only semester of college and several spring breaks and more… They’d both given offering to the porcelain goddess more than once all those years ago.  

                In the spirit of brotherhood and for old time’s sake, Miles helped him over to the rusty pump in the middle of the yard. Fortunately for Miles’ own affliction, the pump was far away from that disgusting display of stupidity Bass had left behind in the weeds. He watched the drunken moron attempt to get the thing working for several minutes before impatience and pity won out over disgust and he walked over to help.

                He shooed Bass away and started to work the pump for him. He watched as Bass cupped his hands and brought them to his mouth. The water looked rusty as hell, but it had to be better than the taste of bile and booze. He spat out several mouthfuls before bothering to drink any.

                When he’d had his fill and had washed his face, Miles clapped a hand on his shoulder and led him away. “Come on pal, let’s get some food in you.”

                “I don’t want to go to town,” Bass said. He was still slurring horribly and was very unsteady. “ _She’s_ in town. I don’t wanna be anywhere near her.”

                “Well, we’ll stay away from your place then. Let’s go.”

                The walk back to the town gates was a slow one. Bass had to stop to get sick again several times and it was everything Miles could do to block out the images and sounds of it and get him moving. They were halfway there before the pathetic drunk talk started flowing from him.

                Miles knew Bass probably wouldn’t remember it when he’d sobered up, and even if he did, well he’d play it off as if he hadn’t. Still, you didn’t go through all those years of drinking without falling victim to Depressed Drunk Syndrome (and Bass had helped him through a few nights like this over the years). All he could do was let him go through the stages of it:

**The Three Stages of Depressed Drunk Syndrome, as experienced by Bass Monroe…**

**Sniveling Drunk** _: What the hell did I do to deserve this? I just wanted to make her happy, you know? How could she hurt me like this? I thought she loved me. Everyone I care about either fucks me over, dies or leaves._

                Countered by **The Sympathetic Bro** : _I don’t know, Bass. Why does any woman do the things she does? It’s just their thing. Chicks lift you up so they can knock your ass back down. We’ve all been there._

 **Pissed Off and Vengeful Plotting** **Maniac** : _Fucking whore! I oughta go over there and kick her ass out! I pay the fucking rent, I bought the fucking furniture! Let her go find some hole to crawl under. That’s exactly what I’m gonna do… Gonna get my place and change the fucking locks, and when I’m done with that, I’m gonna put a bullet in that little fuckwad, Tommy!_

Handled with the **Voice of Reason** : _Don’t do anything you’re gonna regret, Bass. Give it a day or two to sink in before you get your ass arrested for homicide. And in the state you’re in, you’ll just puke all over the place and it’ll be unlivable._

_**Sappy Drunk Guy** (who made an appearance right as they were about to walk passed the town gates): I love you bro—I know it’s weird for guys to say that, but I really do. _

There was only one way to handle Sappy Drunk Guy—you had to become **Mr. I’m Not Insecure In My Own Masculinity For the Next Five Seconds:** _I know, Bass. Love you too, brother. Come on, let’s get you a hot meal (and shut you up before the afternoon watch overhears any of this!)._

Because going to the bar from the eastern gate meant having to walk right past Bass and Charlie’s house, Miles steered him away from there. Charlie could very well be drowning her sorrows, or if she’d remained where he’d left her, she was crying her eyes out in the living room. The house was set quite a bit up from the street, but if she was looking carefully, she just might notice them. The last thing Miles needed right now was a confrontation between the two.

                In his mind, he had three options: The house he shared with Rachel (bad idea, very bad idea), Gene’s house (the positive being the Doc could care for Bass), or Aaron’s house. Of all the people in their awkward little circle, he figured the Pittmans were his best bet. They’d at least tried to like the guy for Charlie while the rest of them had simply looked down their noses at the couple ever since discovering they were together. That, and their house was the closest of his limited and shitty options.

                And so, that’s where Miles headed. While Bass dry heaved over the porch railing, Miles banged impatiently on the door. Thankfully, there were signs of life and after a few moments, Aaron came to the door. By the smells wafting from the house, they’d just been settling down to a late dinner.

                “Miles? What’s going on?” Aaron asked. The drunken groan coming from the other side of the porch had him poling his head out, looking from the source.

                Miles’ face broke out into a sheepish grin. He held a finger up, signaling that he needed a minute. He went to Bass, who was in danger of pitching head first over the railing. He grabbed him by the back of the shirt to haul him upright and practically dragged him over to the door. “Hey Aaron. Got room for two more at the table?”

                Priscilla appeared then. “Oh my God! What’s he done with himself?”

                A short time later, Bass was sitting in clean, borrowed clothes. The shirt was one that Aaron reserved for one of his “fat” days. It was laughable how big it was on him. Bass was a good six feet, but his powerful frame was wiry and lithe, compact even. Aaron was almost the same height, but even after trimming down quite a bit over the past year or so, he was still just bigger all over. The sweatpants that he’d lent Bass had to be tied with a belt to keep them up. Even in his current state, all he’d done was bitch about how ridiculous he looked.

                Priscilla had set a bowl of stew in front of him and was lurking nearby, making sure that he actually ate it (and didn’t pass out face first into it). Meanwhile, Miles had dragged Aaron over to the side and was explaining the tragedy of Bass and Charlie to him in a low voice.

                “Wow. That’s… wow.” Aaron spared the former general a glance now. “I’ve see that man do some serious drinking—never seen him like this though.”

                “Yeah well, empty stomach and more than his fair share and all. Anyway, obviously he’s not going back home—at least not until he’s had a chance to sober up and they’ve had a rational conversation. I was wondering if I could ask a huge favor here.”

                He didn’t even have to say it. Aaron knew what was being asked of him right away. “Oh no. The last thing we want is to get in the middle of this—it’ll end in disaster for everyone.”

                “I heard that!” Bass slurred from the other room. “I’m drunk, not deaf.”

                With that proclamation, Aaron dragged Miles out onto the front porch so they could discuss Bass without further interruption. They could hear his wife and their topic of conversation bickering in the kitchen however.

                “Stop eavesdropping and eat!” Priscilla admonished.

                “Yes, _Mother._ Fucking Staypufts always bossing people around. Ow! Hey!”

                Miles could picture Priscilla smacking Bass. She was one of the few people in town that had _never_ taken his past into consideration. She’d refused to be leery of him, intimidated or insulted. Everyone else just expected him to be crass, a bit of a prick and handle things a bit too personally and violently. It was just a part of the package.

                Even Charlie had gotten used to it (and was often even amused by it—especially when he was going out of his way to be ornery). Priscilla, on the other hand expected better from him and for reasons that no one had _ever_ been able to figure out, for the most part, he begrudgingly complied.

                Bass’ nickname for the couple didn’t bother her so much for her own sake—Priscilla wasn’t a big woman, and even if she was, she was too comfortable in her own skin to care. It did annoy her to no end on Aaron’s behalf though. “Say you’re sorry!” they heard her order.

                “Sorry, Stay—Aaron,” came the sullen and slurring response.

                Miles had to force a straight face. Circumstances here were too shitty to find the exchange amusing. “So?”

                Aaron pulled his glasses off and wiped the lenses with the tail of his shirt. “Fine, he can stay—but it’s just for a couple of days.”

                Priscilla came out then. “Of course he can stay. We’re his friends and _that’s_ what friends do. Now help me get him into the guest room. He’s passed out at the table.”

                Bass having been dealt with, the Pittmans were finally able to settle down and eat their dinner. Priscilla had just assumed that Miles would be joining them and had set out a third bowl. As they ate, they tried to figure out what was to become of Charlie and Bass.

                “Of course, Rachel is on cloud nine. She’s been gloating since she heard the news,” Miles informed them in between bites.

                All day long, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about this mess. He couldn’t help but wonder if they’d all played a role in Charlie’s actions. With an exception to Aaron and Priscilla, no one had taken the marriage well. Instead of accepting things, they’d all made it difficult for her. She’d eventually stopped coming around, instead spending most of Bass’ month-long stints in Austin alone in their house, waiting for him to come home.

                Miles had checked on her from time to time, but maybe he should have paid more attention. He should have noticed that it had been wearing on her. She’d seemed so deliriously happy when Bass was home, but those long weeks in isolation had led her to seek company with Tommy Riley. Maybe if she’d had their support, it wouldn’t have come to that.

                Miles was torn now. On one hand, he didn’t want the m to be together, but on the other hand, he hated to see them both hurting like this. Charlie was faring no better than Bass right now—albeit she was dealing with it soberly for the time being. She was, however a blubbering mess.

                When she’d told him Bass’ response to her pleas for forgiveness, Miles’ first instinct had been to go over there and beat the shit out of him. Nobody called his niece a whore and got away with it. And then, he’d found him so dangerously drunk. That outrage had turned to worry really fucking fast.

                “And to make things worse, she’s not even bothering to hide it from Charlie. I caught her over there this morning, practically rubbing it in,” he continued sadly. Rachel hadn’t been the same after the war and it was all he could do on most days to keep her on even keel. It made him sad to see that the one thing that seemed to give her joy in life was anything that hurt Bass. Rachel had been practically skipping to the library after she’d left Charlie’s to go look up Texas divorce laws.

                “I get it she hates the guy, but this is her _daughter_ ,” Priscilla said as she got up to collect their now empty bowls. “Whether she liked it or not, Bass was Charlie’s choice. She should have respected that—when it comes to your kids, you have to suffer in silence sometimes.”

                “Anyway, thanks for doing this. It’ll be a lot easier to keep an eye on him if he’s staying here rather than outside of town—if I let him go back to that dump, this’ll be an everyday thing for him until he either gets it out of his system or it kills him.”

                The trio had no doubts that Bass would not be remaining in Willoughby after this. However, they made a pact to make sure he was going to be okay before they let him disappear first. If they didn’t, there was no telling where he’d end up or what mess he’d find himself in. Bass was a trouble magnet, especially when he was hurting. His only coping mechanism to deal with heartache was to convert it to rage. It never ended well—not for him and definitely not for anyone range of his temper.

                Before taking his leave, Miles thanked the Pittmans again for their help. He’d known that Aaron was going to be a pushover. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body and was willing to give just about anyone the shirt off his back.

                Priscilla had been the wild card. Miles had not anticipated her mothering skills to come out quite so quickly. After the war, they’d learned that her daughters had not survived the Patriots and she’d grieved hard before coming out of it and joining Aaron at reopening the school. It hadn’t mattered that Bass was a grown man and five years older than her. Priscilla had immediately gone into “mom mode” and had stepped up.

                As he walked home, he was relieved that at the very least, everyone was settled for the evening. Now, he had to go home and try to explain to Rachel exactly _why_ she needed to keep out of it while at the same time he _got_ to be stuck right in the middle. And then, he’d have to convince Gene to stay neutral as well. His final task before going to bed would be to write a letter to Frank Blanchard and ask for a delay if any divorce papers showed up in Austin—just until everyone was sure it was the best course of action. _I’m getting too old for this shit_ …

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work has been borrowed from Bon Jovi's song of the same title. 
> 
> There's a lot of Charloe fics out there that have breakups and subsequent makeups (I'm famous for them), but it's usually Charlie that is breaking up and Bass that is fucking up. This story WILL have a happy ending (I'll always warn you if it doesn't, I swear), but I wanted to explore a scenario that has Charlie being the cause of all their problem instead of Bass. 
> 
> There will be a long road to fix things, but bear with me (and I promise that Miles will offer the comic relief -- Aaron too in a very minor role). 
> 
> This fic explores a post Patriot world where Bass is the one that actually has things together (or so he thinks) and the others are still flailing after the war. 
> 
> In many ways, this fic is offering me a purge-- it's been hard to not have Charloe angst as I've been working on "I Will Follow." 
> 
> Before you all hang me from the nearest tree, give me a chance to send them through the process so they can get it right... 
> 
> This is NOT a song fic, but the titles will be based off of songs (and choice lyrics included somewhere, most likely in the notes)
> 
> I will post 1-2 chapters at a time and for the time being, I will not xpost this to ffnet -- maybe later.


End file.
